


Rain Through the Trees and Wind on the Shutters

by A_N_Whitmore



Series: Storms and Darkness [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Dissociative Identity Disorder, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_N_Whitmore/pseuds/A_N_Whitmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hates storms, they cause him to sink down into the deep pit of darkness that he never wants to face again. So he finds anything to avoid the darkness until eventually he sees that he's been holding the storm and the darkness within all along. Derek has seen this darkness more than once, it will just take time for Stiles to admit it to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain Through the Trees and Wind on the Shutters

The alarm rings blaring like a freight train through the cloudy haze of Stiles light sleep. He’d never been able to get a full night’s rest since the situation with Jennifer and the Kitsune that followed; but he’d rather have no dreams and wake up often over crippling terror and lucid nightmares any day.

Wind and rain had been howling through the remodelled Hale house all through the night, complete with some fantastic thunder and peals of lightning. He’d taken some amazing scene shots from the balcony around three in the morning during his second waking cycle, he’d have to show Derek later after they’d gotten some caffeine in their systems.

Meanwhile, a certain ass was unwilling to acknowledge the alarm going off for the last three minutes.

“Sour wolf….” Stiles elbows him lightly in the side whispering affectionately.

“Hmm..?” Derek moans and sticks his face deeper into the crux of Stiles armpit.

“Get the alarm babe… It’s time to get up… We have work in an hour.”

“Nnn… Call off…” Derek rolls over and silences the now continuous beeping with a huff of dissatisfaction at his sleep being disturbed.

“Hey… I like my job… You… Well, you put up with yours?”

“You work with geriatrics, kids, and drug addicts doing paintings and sculptures Stiles, I meanwhile take them to the hospital, most of the drug addicts you see are the repeat regulars I’m shoving Narcan down so they don’t die from a bad run.”

“Sorry Mr. Paramedic Saviour, but you know I find it extremely hot when you dress in your blues. Also… I like it when you tell me about how many people you saved in a day. It makes a boy swoon you know…”

Stiles’ eyebrows lift mischievously as he rolls over onto Derek’s stomach.

“I thought you said we only had an hour before work?” Derek runs his hands over Stiles’ arms and drapes them loosely about his neck.

“Well I was planning on some private painting time before my client at 11 but I could push that off today… I already did the soap notes and some intake evaluations yesterday… and technically you aren’t scheduled on until 11:30 for the swing into afternoon right? Or were you dead set for going in at 9?”

Stiles rattles away, failing to pause and almost losing his breath, his eyes glancing out at the shutters banging against the window.

“Stiles… Shut up with the ramble mouth and kiss me already…”

Stiles hated the wind anymore… where he used to revel in a good storm, now he feared it. That was why he took the camera to nature, putting the lens between him and the darkness gave his panicked adrenaline something to latch on to. Storms had become his muse, the dark and deep psychological darkness that he felt within… the “Nothing” the “Void” was represented well in the nature of the clouds. Yet, it still caused his mind to freak out. He rambled, he raged, he hid in closets when Derek wasn’t home and sketched for hours with nothing but his Ipod and every light in the house lit.

He hid so no one would know where he was, he turned on all the lights so the “Dark” could find no place to hide. Even the closet was lit, Stiles had insisted on it when they laid the plans. There was a panic room that was fire proofed and completely isolated from the main complex. The fucking room had a completely satellite link system free from any wifi grid base and an escape route down to Beacon Hill’s sewer system and yet Stiles hid in closets just like he did when he was five.

“Stiles… Stiles, hey look at me… it’s just the wind baby ok? It’s just the wind in the trees. I need you to focus on me. No one else is here ok, it’s just you and me and our stuff and Charlie ok? Charlie’s down at the bottom of the bed see?”

Derek points to a silver tabby cat who is too busy cleaning himself to be bothered with his owner’s precarious situation.

Stiles turns his head and takes in the sight of the cat looking like he was attempting to play the cello more than clean himself and laughs shakily as his lower lip trembles and a tear threatens to escape.

“God…” Stiles takes a deep breath and puts his head down on Derek’s chest.

“I was good until the wind picked up again.”

“I know hun, I know… you want me to call Doctor Feldman? He can get you a note for FMLA and we can go talk today if that’s what you need.”

“I can’t even be sexy on a rainy day and wake my husband up with hot stuff before work… ugh… that’s it… tell Lydia the kid idea is off!”

“Nope… You are stuck with that, you wanted kids so we’re going to have them.”

“Fine…but if they are hyper active, wolfed out, fluffy little maniacs all the time I don’t want to hear it when you realise it was a bad move. I gave you an out now.” Stiles said this muffled into Derek’s broad shoulders and Derek just laughed pulling him closer.

“They’ll be fine.”

“Derek could you hand me the inhaler? I don’t want to feel tight anymore.”

“That’s it,” Derek reached for the Dulera inhaler and hands it to Stiles, giving him a soft kiss on his mussed hair, ” I’m calling the hospital and telling them you’re taking a sick day and then we are going to watch your campy cult science fiction tv show in bed all day.”

“Doctor Who is not campy, take it back.” Stiles pokes him hard in the chest for the affront, causing Derek to wince and rub at the slight pinch of pain.

“Not campy? Stiles… The aliens…. Come on… The chief nemesis of The Doctor lives in a metal trash can and had a toilet plunger for a data sucker and a batter paddle for a laser beam gun, if that isn’t campy then you can call me Blind Susan.”

“Ok… Maybe it is a little bit cheesy but you have to admit that the Daleks are the scariest mothers on the freaking planet!”

Stiles sits up giving a rather pleasurable view of his flailing mole and freckle laden body. A view that Derek doesn’t mind coveting at all. He would speak at length about any subject Stiles enjoyed if it kept his mind off of the brewing storm outside.

“No… I think I’d rather go with the Angels… I hate statues like that anyway, now Doctor Who made them even more eerie. Remind me to thank whoever wrote that episode for renewing the old Buffy feelings.

“Wait a second? How in the world do you equate Buffy with the Angels in Doctor Who?”

“Simple, the statues in Buffy were usually used to render evil magic, and the Angels in Doctor Who feed off of time energy for their continued existence, and are usually seen as evil towards the heroic team right? It’s the same as Buffy… Ergo… Statues are creepy and evil looking no matter what universe you land in.”

“Wow…. One… I can’t believe you used the word “ergo” in a sentence, two… Talk nerdy to me all the time please… You so need to wear your glasses more often, screw the werewolf eyesight. Finally, three… Not all statues are creepy, but I will agree with you that yes you do have a point with religious iconography.”

Stiles begins to stretch appreciatively until a large crash sounded from below and he freezes like a deer as Charlie bolts from the bed to hide. Derek knows better than to touch Stiles in the middle of a freeze, but it was something entirely different to be in this intimate a situation. Dr. Feldman had said to try and keep his mind from going into the negative preoccupation mode, to deter him from the sounds of the storm by having his energy focused on more controllable activities.

Stiles often tried to turn his mind to art, the sketch books and the camera being out attested to his attempts to distract himself during the calmer parts of the storm last night, but today was an entirely different matter. He wouldn’t have the attention span he required to concentrate and his hands would be far too unsteady to hold the camera or grip the pencils.

“Stiles….?” Derek attempted to break through the vacant gaze, “Stiles… Let me in…” He gently places his hand on the back of Stiles neck and let his claws lengthen, biting gently into the supple giving flesh. He shudders as the ripples of memory flows over him like a coppery tang and he sees Stiles staring in the mirror of a vacant room above a sink, covered in blood.

“Stiles…” His voice echoes strangely in the bright white room, he’d never allowed himself to see this before, Stiles wouldn’t speak of it outside of his sessions and his therapy sketches were off limits.

“Don’t open the door…. Get out….Don’t open the door…. Get out…. Get out get out get out get out get out GET OUT!”

Derek finds himself forcibly thrown back from Stiles’ mind, but the lithe body of his husband follows him pushing him down firmly to the mattress as he invades his mouth. Sometimes Stiles’ panic attacks concluded with rough and angry sex, sex where Stiles insists on being in complete control but this is ferocious. Derek feels his lip break open and Stiles moans lapping at the blood and refusing to let it heal.

This was the type of sex Stiles hated having, the kind that Derek secretly craved. Stiles was never into receiving pain except on rare occasions and even then they had to build up to it, but Derek had never known that Stiles could give pain quite like this.

Stiles pushes Derek’s hands up above the pillows and makes him grab on to the attached iron headboard. He doesn’t say a word but merely continued biting and scratching and watching Derek bleed.

“Told you… Don’t look… You… Won’t like it.” Stiles finds him hard and ready, pausing to take a long swipe of his tongue from root to tip as his lithe hand wraps around Derek’s length.

“That is me…I like seeing people in pain….. I like blood… I like anger and rage…. I’m sick… I want this, I want to fuck you until I bleed and feel normal…. I hate storms because all I can hear is people screaming and it makes me feel like Peter….. And God…. Part of me wonders what it would be like to fuck him…. And you….together…and that makes me such a sick bastard….”

Stiles watches Derek’s eyes go wide, a spurt of precome falls from the tip and dribbles over his hand as he reaches for the lube in his nightstand.

“So that isn’t a sick idea…. Ever since Peter said he would bite me again you’ve had this look on your face… Like you wanted to either kill him or screw him into the ground and I think it’s a bit of both.”

Stiles changes when he’s like this, he becomes a dark sinuous sexual creature that Derek can’t get enough of, Dr. Feldman warned Derek of the dissociation episodes. Stiles won’t admit to his losing time, just like he wouldn’t admit to it back then but Derek needs it like he needs a drug.

He needs this side of Stiles to hurt him, he knows it’s wrong, he knows Stiles will cry when he washes the sheets later…. This isn’t the first time he’s switched into this basic sexual dark self.

“Stiles…”

“How many times do I have to tell you love… It’s Sviatoslav…. Now do you want me to prep you or go in dry?”

“Stiles… Please…” Stiles thumb is moving maddeningly over the tip of his cock and he feels like he’s about to pass out from the pressure he has from the grip Stiles holds on his root.

“Keep calling me the wrong name and we’ll have to get the gag again….. You know how much I hate gagging you Da upryamyy?

Stubborn one… Sviatoslav’s pet name for him. Stiles refused to speak Russian, but Sviatoslav spoke it with gusto, endearments and curses flowing forth from the same breath.

Stiles’/Sviatoslav’s hand left his cock peacefully and yet sadly bereft of touch, the same hands that drummed incessantly on table tops and aluminium pans now bit painfully and gorgeously into his thighs, drawing crescent shaped blood pools as Sviatoslav leaned in between his legs and bit painfully at the thin skin.

“Tell me… Do you think Stiles would like it if he found you fucking Peter? Would he enjoy it if you were covered in your own blood and fucking him? Are wolves like that in the wild? Don’t they fuck for dominance in packs as well?”

Stiles fingers were mercifully coated in cold lubricant as they breached the outer ring of his anus, but this dark soul took no time or kindness, rather he crooked his two fingers and pistoned quickly in and out as he sought out Derek’s prostate.

“Will you ever bare your throat to me? After all aren’t Stiles and I both your mate considering we share the same mind and body?”

The kiss Derek receives from Sviatoslav is like comparing night and day to Stiles’ kiss, Sviatoslav is all tongue and passion and dark forbidden things wrapped in red blood. Stiles’ kiss is a cool drink of lemonade on a summer day or apple cider in the fall, all things good and innocent and kind wrapped in a child.

Just as Derek begins to answer, Sviatoslav finds that magic spot that makes Derek keen as the thunder and lightning peal against the darkened sky. Withdrawing his fingers, he quickly replaces the voided space with his cock and Derek finds himself clutching the body he knows so well in control of someone he wishes he never even met.

“Say my name…” The voice he loves is raspy with a tinge of Russian accent, so unlike his Stiles.

“Why… So you’ll become a real boy?”

“If you want me to say you’re real and bare my neck to you, then you’ll have to let him go.”

Derek shakes with how good it feels, how right and rough, the bed is literally slamming into the wall and he sees blood covering Stiles’ mouth just like in the vision and he has the urge to lick it off, to cleanse the evil from the innocent.

He lets the urge take over and finds himself moaning as he licks his blood from his lover’s lips, and suddenly he hears a whimper as he feels his husband surge forward and come heavily, pouring into him with tears running down his face.

“Stiles? Sweetheart? Look at me… It’s ok…. It’s just the wind in the trees.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dissociative Identity Disorder is a very real condition brought on by trauma. To read about an actual case, please read "The Flock" by Joan Frances Casey. 
> 
> To find out more please contact me via message at diewalkure13.tumblr.com- Magic isn't Intellect, it's emotion.


End file.
